


this is home

by acceptnosubstitutes



Series: the ot3 to end all ot3s [1]
Category: Falling Skies
Genre: Gen, Multi, canon compliant (for once)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 11:24:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1897212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acceptnosubstitutes/pseuds/acceptnosubstitutes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dai doesn't like accepting help, but Tom and Anne have ways around that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is home

Bikes, and then replenishing the drugs used up in Rick’s operation. The prerequisites Weaver demanded before Tom could go after Ben. How many attempts did that make now? At least two and both failures.

And even if they manage to rescue him, when, _when_ Ben’s back with his family where he belongs, it’s Dr. Michael Harris who will perform the harness removal operation. Michael’s a good surgeon. Tom doesn’t doubt that.

_I couldn’t save Rebecca, but bring Ben to me._

Harris’s words, an open wound, bring Ben to him. Anne should be the one doing the surgery.

Tom sighs, looking up high. Margaret’s inside, with Weaver, talking about going after a cache of drugs. Weaver will take the plan she went over with Tom beforehand. It’s their only lead and he’ll want to focus attentions back on war preparations as quickly as possible.

A clear sky spreads out as far as Tom can see no trace of clouds in sight. The sun shines bright. Neither match Tom’s mood. 

At first the bench in the courtyard seemed a nice place to take a break with nothing but the noise of children playing nearby to bother him. The meeting with Margaret and Weaver misses Tom’s presence but sometimes being in a school is stifling. Brings back too many memories. But outside isn’t proving much better. 

The whoosh of sliding doors opening causes Tom to glance over only to make a sigh half a chuckle. At least Anne can be glad Dai is making use of the crutch she made him take the day before.

“Someone’s not listening to doctor’s orders,” Tom says. He has an actual chuckle for the eye roll he receives in response.

“Have her way I’d be in bed the next two or three days.”

Tom slides his gun off the bench and props it up on the ground, patting the newly emptied space. He keeps a close eye on Dai while he sits down but doesn’t try and help. Dai draws a very hard line between caring and coddling. But Tom doesn’t miss his wince either.

For a while they sit in an easy silence, companionable, as always. _Bring Ben to me_. Anne’s opinion of Harris Tom already knows, even if she tried to be polite. Dai on the other hand…

“What’s your opinion of Harris?”

Tom focuses on two boys Matt’s age kicking around a soccer ball. _Rebecca’s death might save Ben’s life_.

“He’s a capable surgeon.”

Bring Ben to me, Harris says, after admitting he left Rebecca behind to die because he thought his skills as a surgeon had greater value. Your fault too, Harris says, you were the one supposed to be out there that morning.

“Honest opinion.”

“He’s an arrogant pain in the ass, capable surgeon.” Dai doesn’t miss a beat. Tom tilts his head back, laughs, and pressure in his chest loosens.

“Thank you,” Tom says. He doesn’t elaborate and Dai doesn’t ask. Certain things don’t always need to be spelled out in words.

Such as the fact the hard wooden bench is causing Dai pain. He won’t admit it, not even when an attempt to shift into a more comfortable position draws out a bitten off groan, reappearance of a wince that takes even longer to disappear.

Instead of pointing it out, Tom squints up at the sun, and then checks his watch.

“Close to lunch,” Tom says, sliding off the bench.

Dai pulls a face. It can’t be about the food. Though John Pope skipped out on them recently, he left behind enough leftovers to break 2nd Mass through a few meals before the dreaded oatmeal makes its reappearance. 

Pope might be a bastard but he’s a bastard that can cook. 

Several hallways lead the way from the courtyard to the school cafeteria, however. A long walk to make in pain. 

Tom offers Dai a hand up, not surprised that he takes it. Any sign of distress from Dai, no matter how small, greatly understates the actual pain he’s in at the time. Tom and other fighters learned that lesson fast in the past six months.

“Promised Lourdes I’d stop by the infirmary and make sure Anne makes it to lunch today.” An entirely real promise, but not the reason of its mention. Tom waits until Dai has the crutch under him again before he strides forward to make it to the door first. “Come with me?”

It’s a shorter trip from the courtyard to the infirmary. If Dai has a guess at why Tom really wants him to accompany him on a trip Tom could make alone, he only nods acceptance. Tom sets an easy to keep pace, not too fast but not too slow either, slow but steady progress to the infirmary. He nods to soldiers and civilians alike that pass by all the while keeping a tab on Dai limping along at his side.

By the time the open infirmary door looms in front of them Dai visibly sways, strain of walking on his wounded leg present in the beads of sweat trailing down his neck. Tom has a quick glance in, greeted only by the sight of Anne throwing away used bandages.

He turns back to Dai and shakes his head, taking the crutch from him and propping it against the wall just outside the doorway. Without waiting for protest Tom slips Dai’s arm around his shoulder, more or less forcing Dai to lean heavily on him and off his injured leg.

“Easier this way,” Tom says. No refutation surfaces. That might be a sign of Dai finally accepting help or a sign his world might be spinning the way he’s squeezing his eyes shut and has his mouth set in a tight line. Tom nods. “Much easier.”

Anne, bless her heart, only briefly raises an eyebrow at them when they cross the threshold. She sets the trash can down and moves to help Dai sit down on a bed.

By the time he’s settled Dai’s already bent over and cradling his head in his hands. Without a word Anne dims the lights in the room. She returns with a bottle of pills and a glass of water.

One shared glance has both Anne and Tom taking seats on either side of Dai. While Anne opens the bottle Tom allows himself a brief touch, smoothing out a half circle between Dai’s shoulder blades. A fine line between caring and coddling, but touch always seemed to soothe Matt when ill, and Dai makes no move to shrug it off. 

Anne allows a few more circles before she nods to Tom. They grasp Dai by the elbows and lift him up, holding him there long enough for him to take the pills in silence, letting him fall back to cradling his head in his hands afterwards. Tom resumes rubbing circles.  
“Oxycodone,” Anne tells Tom, “should blunt the pain in a few minutes.”

“Thought we didn’t have any of the heavy drugs left?”

Anne shrugs, hesitates, and then shifts close to press up against Dai. It’s all light points of contact. Touch seems to help.

“That was the last of it.” Anne’s hand joins Tom’s, soothing lines down Dai’s spine. “Most of our stock were needed for Rick’s surgery and afterwards, slowly weaning him into consciousness, but I‘d saved a bottle beforehand just in case.”

More like intentionally by the half smile Anne tries to hide from view. Not that anyone in the room missed the phrase “for my difficult patients” attached. True to Anne’s words, the tense muscles under both Anne’s and Tom’s hands slowly begin to relax as the pain medication works its magic.

“I’ll ask a guard if they wouldn’t mind bringing three plates down to the infirmary,” Anne says.

“I can walk,” comes the inevitable protest.

“You’re slurring your words and in enough pain to accept meds from me without question, twice in a twenty four hour period.” Anne pats Dai’s knee, chuckling at the resulting and familiar heavy sigh.

“We know you can walk,” Tom continues once she slips out of the room, “but we’d rather you didn’t. It’s not a crime to rest when you need to Dai.”

“Weaver might see things differently,” Dai says, but he’s yet to actually attempt movement and there’s an undercurrent of resignation to his voice. 

Can’t win over Anne Glass in her own infirmary after all.

So long as he isn’t given the command to stop Tom sees no reason to cease rubbing trails down Dai’s back in Anne’s absence. 

In all fairness, the motions soothe Tom as well, gives him something to focus on, someone he can help while his fourteen year old son mindlessly collects scrap metal for unknown purposes. Just within reach but still so far away. 

Probably why Dai isn’t making him stop. Not all things need to be spelled out, after all, when not all that long ago Tom stared down at a deceased harnessed boy Ben’s age with Dai at his side. Tom shakes his head.

“Honest answer,” Tom says, still stroking, easy and firm, “Am I actually helping you or just myself right now?”

“Both.” Matter of fact and blunt, the answer halts Tom’s hand for a moment.

Tom shakes his head again. “Here I’m supposed to be taking care of you.”

“You wanted honesty. But that wasn’t a plea to stop.”

It’s a talent to switch between roles of caretaker and patient as easily as Dai does. Tom resumes the circles to a hum. A well-developed talent. 

Anne returns to the bed not long after, pressing right up again like she’d never left.

“Food should be along shortly.” Anne pauses in thought, then taps Dai’s thigh. “Shift your legs up here. Doctor’s orders.”

It takes some awkward maneuvering but eventually they manage to get Dai resting between them, his head in Tom’s lap and Anne carefully avoiding jarring his injured leg where it rests in hers.

“Oxycodone has a tendency to make people sleepy,” Anne explains, “and I won’t have another patient for a couple hours sans a walk in. Don’t fight it. Sleep will help you heal faster.”

“Two to three days seems excessive.” But after a few moments whittled away in silence Tom glances down only to find his eyes have slipped shut. It speaks to the amount of trust he has for them that Dai would willingly sleep in their presence, drugs or no.

“Actually,” Anne says to Tom, tracing the curve of a leg, “I recommended two to three days of complete bed rest and off duty for a week, with regular checkups. I even had Weaver’s permission for the latter. A hundred fighters here, someone can pick up the slack. Unfortunately, the only way to keep Dai in a bed seems to require drugging him.”

“Wait a while,” Margaret says from the door, “and you’ll be able to drug all the patients you want doc.” Her eyes sweep over the three of them, slipping from Tom’s hand on Dai’s side to Anne’s on his lower leg, gently kneading the area around bandages lightly tinted pink. “Am I interrupting something?"

Tom shakes his head, waving her in. He doesn’t, however, remove his hand from where it rests.

“Weaver go for your idea?”

“Yeah. We’re to move out in two days.”

Tom nods, accepting the news, but surprisingly Margaret doesn’t turn to leave despite her already well apparent dislike of hospitals. She glances at the three of them again, chewing on her lip, and then crosses the room to pick up a folded blanket sitting on a chair.

“Been shot before,” Margaret says, handing the blanket over, “never a pleasant business. See you later.”

Anne fixes the blanket to keep Dai warm but allow her to continue easing the pain out. It seems a shame to let the blanket go to waste simply because it isn’t terribly cold in the infirmary. 

When a soldier pokes her head in the doorway Anne nods her to set her burden on the table to the far wall. The food smells delicious to someone used to eating on the fly and to another used to forgetting the time. But neither Tom nor Anne move towards the plates.

“He fell asleep fast,” Anne says.

Tom nods. Easily, too. “A few more minutes, then we’ll wake him.”

Thirty minutes slip by without Anne or Tom commenting on it, caught up in relating stories about Tom’s sons or Anne’s patients, but never so much that they forget the time.

Certain things don’t always need to be spelled out in words, of course. And lukewarm or not, lunch is lunch. Taking care of a friend always there for everyone else is something else entirely.


End file.
